Creep
by oxycodone
Summary: "I wish I was special. You are so fucking special. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here ? I don't belong here." Filch is forever ignored and obsessed with a certain Slytherin student. unrequited!Filch/Pansy.


_**A/N: **_**A ****disclaimer: This is written for**** fun, not profit. I do not own anything except the plot.**

_"I wish I was special_

_You're so fucking special_  
_But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo_

_What the hell am I doing here?_

_I don't belong here"_

_- Creep by Radiohead._

If anyone knows what being invisible feels like, it is Argus Filch. For years, students have walked past him, not sparing a single glance. It is as if he is a brick wall or a statue, something they are used to seeing around but is never actually looked at.

The only time they give him any attention at all is when he catches them breaking some rule. So he gives out detention for the most trivial things, desperate for someone to at least look at him, no matter how resentful or disgusted those looks are.

He does not blame them, not really. Even his parents have never looked at him properly. No parent dreams of a Squib child, after all. It must have been more convenient to forget he exists instead of acknowledging they have produced something so useless.

He doesn't have any redeeming qualities for his lack of magic either. He is not exactly the best company in the world, with all the repressed grudge he holds against witches and wizards. And his looks leave _a lot_ to be desired.

So why should anyone waste a second of their precious time on him, much less _her_ ? Of course she is completely oblivious to him, just like all her friends.

But contrary to what they all might think, he is a man with the same basic desires as everyone else and he just can't help but notice her.

He knows she is flawed, that she is bitter and cutting and cruel. But to him, she is perfection. There is something so fucking special about her, that he just cannot stop watching her every single move.

He watches her strut through the hallways like she owns the place, usually trailed by a group of wannabe Slytherin girls and boys who want to get in her pants. He watches the way she throws back her head as she laughs at some joke her friends make, her hair flowing down her back like a shiny black waterfall.

He listens in her private conversations as she gossips behind her friends' back and taunts Gryffindors mercilessly. Her voice is sharp and unkind, but there is also something darkly sensual laced in there and he can almost imagine how she would sound as she would tease him with feather light touches.

He breathes deeply as he walks past her, trying to inhale as much of her scent as possible. She smells like wild berries and trouble.

He starts to regularly stop her in the hallways and confiscate whatever object she has on her, claiming it is against the rules. He has these ridiculously long list of rules, new ones coming up every week, so no one questions it. He collects them in a little box beside his bed, looking through them every single night before he goes to sleep.

As that idiot Malfoy cheats on her, breaks up with her, then takes her back, only to leave her_ again_, he is always hidden in the shadows, watching.

On the Christmas of her sixth year, he finally gathers enough courage to talk to her. He psychs himself up for it for days beforehand. But when he finally finds her, she is crying, slumped down on the ground against the wall, in a deserted hallway.

But he has come this far and he has to see it through.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Parkinson." He stutters.

She looks up at him blankly, as if he doesn't even exist. Her eyes are darkened from the tears clouding them, and as she gets up and storms away without saying a single word to him, he realizes that they are not just green, they are the exact shade of poison and heartbreak.

When she finally breaks a rule that warrants punishment, he is ecstatic. He has lost count of the nights he lay in his bed, imagining taking her down to the dungeons for a punishment and finally touching her the way he wants to and how soft her skin would be, touching himself and moaning out her name. Now, he can make it a reality.

He grabs her wrist roughly, dragging her. Her skin is every bit as soft as he imagined it would be, but it is also icy cold.

When he sees the look of utter contempt in her eyes and feels her cringing away from his touch, obviously repulsed by him, he loses his nerve. He makes her write lines instead.

But that night, he can finally imagine _exactly_ how her skin feels, and just for that night, it feels enough.

On the Valentine's day of her seventh year, she finds him. And suddenly her lips are pressed against his own and he feels light headed. She tastes like everything, and nothing like he imagined, all at once. He can taste wine and chocolate and other men on her lips. He doesn't mind, he is too busy greedily running his hands all over her curves, branding each and every one of them to his memory.

Somehow, even as he presses his body against hers, he knows it is too good to be true.

Just a few seconds later - or maybe a few days, he can't be sure - he hears footsteps and laughter as she pushes him away roughly.

"_God_, Pansy, I didn't think you would actually go through with it ! You kissed that weirdo for a fucking _dare_ ! You are _un-fucking-believable_ !" The Greengrass girl cackles. Her mocking expression is mirrored on all their faces as they laugh and jeer and shout insults at him. He turns on his heels without a word, his face beet red, limping away as fast as he can.

Before he leaves, from the corner of his eye, he sees Pansy wiping her mouth and shuddering.

"Did you see how _into_ it he was ? What a _creep_ !" She says shrilly and her friends roar with laughter.

He should have known, really. Ever since the Death Eaters took over the school, the Slytherins have taken the concept of _fun_ to a whole another level. The games have gotten more and more cruel, and they stop at nothing to ease their boredom, now that they have free reign.

After that day, his illusion of perfection is shattered. He no longer follows her around and it feels like his life has no point once again.

Until one year later, he spots a little blonde girl entering the castle, eyes shining with excitement, clothes completely soaked from the boat ride.

She smells like strawberries and breezy summer nights. She smiles at him as she passes by. A slightly apprehensive smile, but a smile nonetheless.

For that brief moment, he no longer feels invisible. And at that moment, it feels like this single second will be more than enough for the rest of his life.

This time, he has _finally_ found perfection. Once again, his life has a purpose.

So what if he will never be special or perfect ?

He doesn't need to _be_ what he wants. He can be content with just chasing after it.

**Please review ! **


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